


bluebirds winging south

by Star_on_a_Staff



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Confession, Developing Relationship, F/M, Fluff, I FINALLY GET TO USE THIS TAG YAY, Lol we're just friends right?, Non-Sexual Intimacy, One Shot, PDA, Post Verdant Wind, Post-Canon, Romance, Travel, but like not really?, commission, there's only one bed, when you hold hands and travel together and you get mistaken for a couple
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:22:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28303773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Star_on_a_Staff/pseuds/Star_on_a_Staff
Summary: “For all that it’s worth, my mother thinks we’re courting," Linhardt comments. "It’s the only reason she can think of as to why I’ve been living in your castle for so long.”Marianne flushes an even deeper scarlet and Linhardt’s outward apathy melts with the snow in his hair, leaving him pink and flustered as he pretends to find the plain wood paneling of their room fascinating. “At least, that’s what she wrote.”In which Linhardt and Marianne travel south for the winter and maybe figure out why everyone thinks they're a couple along the way. Linhardt/Marianne. Post Verdant Wind.
Relationships: Marianne von Edmund/Linhardt von Hevring
Comments: 15
Kudos: 47





	bluebirds winging south

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ryfee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ryfee/gifts).



> MY OTP ARISES YET AGAIN
> 
> Fee commissioned me to write 2k words of LinMari post-war fluff, where they travel together and maybe discover that they have feelings along the way. I jumped on this idea faster than a dog on a T-bone. 
> 
> Please enjoy!

It starts with an innocent enough proposition. 

“Marianne,” Linhardt asks one blustery winter day, “are you able to accompany me on a southern expedition to visit my family for the holidays?”

Marianne looks up in surprise. There’s no graceful precedent or follow-up to this significant question; Linhardt hasn’t moved from his luxurious lounge on the chaise in her study, nor has he looked up from the letter embossed with his family’s seal. 

“Don’t worry—” he adds, almost as an afterthought, “it’s not to some dreadful holiday reunion dinner or anything like that. My mother simply has made a breakthrough discovery in our joint researches on the genetic linkages of minor Crests. She wants me to come take written record of her work in person, since the information is apparently too lengthy to be put in a letter.”

“Why, that’s wonderful, Linhardt,” Marianne says with warmth. This is a discovery that she is secretly thankful for; it has been too often that she’s seen the candlelight flickering from under the door leading to the guest bedroom well after she’s prepared to turn in, and too often that Linhardt has fallen asleep at the dinner table much to her adoptive father’s amusement. 

“It is,” Linhardt yawns languidly and stretches like a cat on his chaise. “It’ll be a considerable journey, however, and in the dead of winter, no less. Don’t feel inclined to agree right away, and give it some thought.”

Marianne ducks her head, grateful for him, and wonders vaguely if they have thick enough winter coats for the journey. 

O.O

“You should accept his offer,” her adoptive father says a little too quickly. His stolid expression never changes even on the best of days, but Marianne has learned to recognize the twitch of his mustache as an indication of humor. “You’ve been very industrious lately, and I think it’s good for you to take some time for yourself.”

Marianne tries not to fidget under the twinkle in his eyes. “It’ll be a few months before I'm able to return home. Are you sure you’ll be fine on your own?”

“Don’t underestimate me, child. Take all the time you need and let me handle things from here.” Her adoptive father folds his hands on his desk and looks appropriately imposing until Marianne bobs into a curtsy and flees for the door before he does something utterly embarrassing and foolish like congratulating them.

“My affection is not that obvious,” she informs the castle cat who has prowled up to her ankles. “It’s _not_.”

The cat yawns widely and gnaws fondly on her skirts.

O.O 

Linhardt and Marianne set off before the winter storms set in, following the mountain line cleaving the country in twain in a steady southwestern direction. They make good time through the first few days of travel, when the skies are relatively clear and only a gentle, silent snowfall speckles their fur-lined collars and the manes of their horses with flakes of silver.

Marianne loves the experience of riding through a wintery snowscape. The roads are empty but for a few travelers in wagons, who greet them cheerily as they rattle by. Traveling in nondescript furs have made them as anonymous as the snow that has blanketed the countryside. The sun is strong, and the skies are bluer than the wings of her favorite feathered friends. 

Southern-blooded Linhardt tells her tales of the ocean, and of warm sunlight and coastal breezes, and Marianne can’t help but laugh at how he seems to have struck a wary truce between himself and the blustery northern climate, and how quickly that truce crumples as soon as snow decides to find a resting pace upon his body.

“This is a southern migration months too late,” Linhardt mourns as Marianne laughs at the sight of gathering snow on his incredibly long eyelashes. “This defeats the purpose of a migration. This is the opposite of a migration.”

“Poor bird,” Marianne can’t resist quipping, and the betrayal in his eyes makes her laugh harder. 

They take the hours of travel at a sedate but steady rhythm, eking the hours away through talk or comfortable silence, watching the thick snowscape around them slowly shrink into greener grasslands with every passing mile. They keep the mountains to their right, the small talk to a minimum, and they don’t talk about the inns. 

The first inn that they stayed at was run by a very reticent gentleman who only had eyes for the gold they pushed across the counter. The second inn was full to bursting, run by a harassed-looking woman in her forties who seemed too rushed to analyze the relationship status of her newest customers. 

The third inn…however… 

“Oh, we’ll be grateful to have you stay with us.” The sweet-faced grandmother beams sightlessly across the table and reaches out her trembling hands. “Here, dearies, let me feel your hands. Oh, it’s been so long since I’ve had such a young couple rest at my doorstep, Goddess bless you. I’ll have my daughters prepare a comfortable room for the both of you.”

Linhardt startles awake. Marianne turns red as a beet. “Oh, no, it’s not what you--”

“Trust me. My hands never lie.” The grandmother smiles back at them, looking a little above them and away. She pats them briskly on their hands and makes a shooing gesture. “Now off to bed, you two! It’s late.”

They climb the stairs to their room in silence. It’s a pretty if a bit plain number that only has one four-poster bed in the corner of the room, an observation that sends more blood rushing through Marianne’s cheeks and causing the frost that had collected on her skin to melt. As if without thinking, Linhardt wipes it away with the finger of his glove before blinking and pulling back.

“It doesn’t make sense why she would mistake us as a couple.” His voice is more thoughtful than embarrassed, and Marianne strives to imitate the casualness of his features. “We weren’t wearing rings. We could be siblings for all she knew.”

“The hands never lie,” Marianne jokes weakly before covering her flaming cheeks and sinking onto the bed. “Goddess…”

Linhardt joins her on the covers, unslinging his heavy scarf with a sigh. “For all that it’s worth, my mother thinks we’re courting. It’s the only reason she can think of as to why I’ve been living in your castle for so long.”

Marianne flushes an even deeper scarlet and Linhardt’s outward apathy melts with the snow in his hair, leaving him pink and flustered as he pretends to find the plain wood paneling of their room fascinating. “At least, that’s what she wrote.”

It’s a mercy that they’re both too worn out to fuss over the finer details of distance, propriety, or who gets the enormous coverlet quilted to a painstaking fault, but as Marianne braids her hair for the night and watches Linhardt yawn while curling contentedly into the pillows, she relaxes, closes her eyes, and allows herself to pretend, just for a little bit.

They both sleep inexplicably well that night. 

O.O

“Good sleep?” one of the grandmother’s daughters asks her in the morning with a wink, and Marianne thinks that her cheeks could melt an entire snowbank at this rate. 

O.O

After another week of steady travel southward, the blank snowscape is interrupted by spindly forests and crumbling stonework. The age-old sight of Garreg Mach Monastery’s towers rising from the distance brings a soft smile to both of their faces, and it’s with renewed enthusiasm when Marianne urges her horse into a playful gallop onward, leaving Linhardt to scramble for the reins to catch up with her gait.

At the sight of their faces, the gatekeeper, enthusiastic as always, hails them excitedly and nearly brings the entire monastery to a standstill as the monks rush to greet Marianne, the scholars to Linhardt, and the entire student body to gawk at two actual war heroes in the flesh. 

Thankfully, Professor Manuela plunges through the crowd before long to rescue her former students from being swallowed in the press of excited bodies, her lovely face lit with joy at the sight of both of them smiling on her proverbial doorstep. 

“Get in before you catch your deaths,” she croons, steering them into the warm-lit interiors of the great hall. “And all the rest of you, shoo! You have exams to study for!”

“You’ve seemed to settle well, Manuela,” Linhardt observes as all the students scurry back to their respective classrooms. “Is Hanneman around?”

“Somewhere lecturing, most likely,” Manuela snorts as she leads them to the cafeteria, where the warm smells of burbling stews and roasting oils brings a sudden wave of nostalgia over Marianne. “I’ll come fetch him when he finally wrenches that nose of his out of his books.”

The cooks must’ve heard the news that the Lady Margravine and her renowned scholar had returned, because dinner is onion gratin stew with pieces of white trout shining like treasure from within its creamy depths, sprinkled generously with herbs from the greenhouse. It’s savory and tastes like old memories. 

Manuela regales them with tales of old gossip of old classmates as they both hungrily wolf down their dinner. Felix and Annette are both teaching at Garreg Mach but are currently honeymooning Goddess-knows-where for the winter. Lorenz and Leonie had visited for a spell to oversee renovations to the chapel, and that was an odd couple if Manuela’s ever seen one. Oh, and just last week, Ignatz and Raphael had popped briefly by to donate an enormous painting of the Goddess only to disappear back on the road, and apparently Dorothea had performed a smashing hit opera that had been so successful it had spirited Ingrid all the way to the Mittelfrank Opera just to propose, _propose_! Could they believe it?! 

“All of you are in such a hurry to get hitched,” Manuela mumbles into her cup of wine as the shadows grow and the fire flickers to a dull glow. “So here’s my advice, you two: take your time, by the Saints. No one’s asking you to get married in a wink, just like that. No use rushing into anything.”

Marianne takes her last bite of peach sorbet with great care and finds that Linhardt has been gazing at her with something warm in his eyes. 

They carefully usher their swaying teacher back to her room, and the silence between them is thoughtful. 

O.O

The snow melts somewhere after the third day from Garreg Mach. They’ve unbound their heavy fur coats in favor of lighter traveling suits, and the expression on Linhardt’s face is relaxed as the sun beams warmer down upon them. “The migration paid off after all.”

“You really are a bird,” Marianne teases him. 

“No, not at all.” Linhardt shakes his head with a self-deprecating smile that tugs wryly at his lips. “If anything, you’re the bird out of the two of us.”

“Really? Marianne startles, and then laughs. It’s more disbelieving than anything. “What kind?”

“A bluebird,” Linhardt answers easily, and seriously, as if he’s thought hard about this already. “Like your hair, and your eyes, and your voice.”

Marianne’s laugh dies in her throat. Linhardt’s facing away from her, focused on turning the reins so that his horse takes the next bend in the road without stumbling, but his ears are red through the emerald of his hair and her heart is pounding so _hard_ —

Their horses turn the bend, and the ocean is before them. 

It’s a sparkling expanse of silver in the shine of the winter sun. A sea of glass, with peaks of crystal that surface and poke through like needles flashing in an ever rippling silken gown. 

They halt their horses near a small hillside to admire the view. Marianne clasps her hands to pray briefly. She thanks the Goddess and asks for courage. 

When she opens her eyes again, Linhardt’s patiently waiting for her as his horse gnaws on a tussock of grass. His eyes flare bright when she edges her own horse a bit closer to his, just enough so that she can hold out her hand for his. 

He takes her hand. They’ve foregone the gloves miles ago. His hand is warm in hers, and his fingers curl into hers with something like expectancy. 

“If your mother asks, about us, I mean,” Marianne falters, and sucks in another breath, “you needn't lie.” 

Linhardt’s eyes go wide. Marianne’s heart is in her throat, and the sun is in her eyes, dazzling her. 

Silence stretches between them for an agonizing moment, and then a smile breaks across his face. He looks more than awake—boyish, even. He brings her hand to his lips. 

“ _When_ she asks,” Linhardt murmurs against her knuckles, “I’ll keep that in mind.” 

Marianne chokes out a sound half between a sob and a laugh. He laughs, too, half-shy, half-incredulous, and all parts delighted. 

They kick their horses into a carefree gallop for the rest of the way. 

.

.

.

fin

**Author's Note:**

> I don't think I've ever written a "There was Only One Bed" story before!! I've become a real fanfiction author!
> 
> Shoutout to pantomyme for the idea of Linhardt calling Marianne a "bluebird". It's something so gosh-dang precious, I had to squeeze that in somehow.
> 
> Thank you for reading, and a special thank you to Fee for commissioning me to write one of my favorite couples of this game! I thoroughly enjoyed writing this and I hope you enjoy reading this as well! 
> 
> Come hang out with me on [my twitter!](https://twitter.com/clairvoyancehsu)


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